Jelly babies pulsating, living,
a single hour of mutated life,
the daughters and sons of blinding light, the bright that sears flesh
‘aloha aina’, love the land.
In the place of the great secret are cemeteries of pearl shells
memories of those whose souls were leached
from a sea-girt isle,
a luminous, watered space
where salt dried swell catches shells.
The palm fronds of imagined paradise,
Have been blown apart
by the Boy who will not name himself
he is a trickster of some might,
dropping snow in the tropics,
as the debris of cold wars
mushrooms above all our Edens.
He is the one, who digs deep,
he has built a tower to reach the moon,
he rears his sons on rifles
muffles his daughters,
but they hear the sound of coral splitting
no longer cover their ears.
their voices reach across the yarn of the ocean
tears turned wise,
we love the land